


Ghosts and Whispers.

by Azrael_Doll



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Bittersweet/Happy Ending, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, I made myself sad, Memory Loss, Other, Voice Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 01:31:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13423863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azrael_Doll/pseuds/Azrael_Doll
Summary: "I've been with the circus for as long as I could remember.""Mollymauk's been here here, you know, for almost two years now. ... We kind of found our voice together. I was very scared and he wasn’t talking, together we kinda helped each other. Learn to you know, have fun again."





	Ghosts and Whispers.

They woke up to darkness. Or at least, very dim light. They were on a cot, a couple of blankets thrown over them in an almost disheveled manner, if the pile of them didn’t equate to some attempt of care. The air had a bitter chill to it as they sat up. Looking down they pushed the blankets away, revealing lavender skin starkly contrasted with white linen bandages. They looked around, they seemed to be in a tent of some sort. Hazy memories of walking, no running, of moving from place to place. They flinched, phantom pains wringing through their body. The dull echo of red pain. A keening sound, not unlike that of a distressed animal left their throat.

Vaguely they were aware of the tent flap opening and someone walking in. They drew their aching legs up to their chest. The whining sound not stopping as they shook, their arms wrapped around their legs. Distantly they could hear someone talking, a dull murmur that gradually condensed into sounds they could pick out. 

“-and that’s what Orna's been up to since, it’ll be good for her.” They must have moved or done something to give away that they can hear, as the man who’s sitting on a stool in the tent clears his throat before speaking, “Oh, your out of it then lad?” They flinch at the endearment, “I’m glad to see you are, you gave us all quite a shock, you got a name?”

A name? Moniker, something people used to identify themselves. But what is theirs? They don’t know. Helplessly they shrug. Their eyes staying downcast, they want to ask what happened but they can’t.

The mans sighs, “My name’s Gustav. I suppose you’re wondering what happened then?” The man nods to himself, “The other night one of ours ran into some trouble at an inn, you helped them out, then yesterday we found you unconscious lying half in a ditch on the road out of town. We thought you were dead at first.” The unspoken we would have taken your things and left you if you had been hung in the air for a moment whilst the man paused, “But you weren’t and some of the troupe recognised you, said we had to help. So we bandaged your wounds and let you rest. We’re a couple days travel away from the town we were just in.” Gustav fidgeted, “Do you remember anything?”

They shook their head, pulling one of the blankets around their shoulders. They looked up when Gustav moved, he had opened a small chest, inside were two swords and some travelling clothes. “These are your things, perhaps they will help, eh?” Gustav frowned and chewed his bottom lip before standing and leaving.

They stared at the chest for a long moment. Breathing deeply, the need to remember worrying with the worry of more pain. Their limbs stiff they moved forward. They delicately touched the swords before moving them aside and looking at the rest of the items. The clothes weren’t familiar, standard travelling clothes in non-distinct colours. They hurriedly dressed and put away the knickknacks. All that was left was a necklace beaded with a silver snake and a ruby, something about it pulled at them. This was important. They put it on, clutching it tightly. Before they sat back on the bed, the swords laid out next to them.

They looked the swords over, they were well balanced and almost masterfully made. They could see detailing on the scabbard and hilt. A flash of memory came to them and they remembered these swords and how they’d used them. Long hours spent practicing and honing their skill. These were theirs. They put them on their hips, the weight feeling comfortable and right. 

They think about leaving, the fabric of the tent the only thing separating them from the outside world. But that will bring questions that they cannot answer. Such as what their god forsaken name was. They frown and then as if introducing themselves to the wall they go to speak. No sound comes out. Their mouth and throat dry, they swallow and try to clear their throat. Still no sound comes out when they try to speak. They clench the hilt of their sword in an almost blind panic. They can’t speak. They don’t know who they are... They gulp in air.

The singing stops them from loosing themselves completely. They tentatively open the flap and see a young dwarven girl singing at a campfire, others around it in various states. There’s the man from earlier and they notice a hulking reptilian figure sitting a little bit away fro the rest, their eyes on the little girl.

They sit down in the opening and listen to the entrancing song, magical and soothing. They loose themselves in the music. A sweeping tale of the gods and creations. Sparks of life, flames of creation and the temptation of hope. They find themselves transported away. Unlike before these memories aren’t painful, but disjointed. Vague happenings, as if recalling something from a book you read as a child and not a story you particularly enjoyed. Eventually they came back to themselves to find a tear rolling down their cheek.

They wipe their eyes as Gustav makes his way over, helping them up and bustling them over to the others. “The lovely singer is Tova, that's Bosin, Desmon, Orna, Kylre and Mona and Yuli,” Most of them gave a nod or a wave in greeting, “You are welcome to stay and all, I’d recommend you pick a name, else we’ll likely give you one you don’t like!” The good natured comment is puncture with a hearty laugh. 

The rest of the evening is filled with more songs and stories, and they wonder, are they safe here?

 

~*~

* * *

 ~*~

 

It had been an interesting couple months working out what they could do, some skills they expected to have never came, where as others were as easy as breathing. They’ve chosen the name Mollymauk, Molly for short. They’ve mostly been helping out behind the scenes, they’ve found their quite good at some of the card and dice tricks they’ve picked up along the way. They are friendly with most of the carnies, the good natured ribbing taking a moment to get used to. They have a writing slate, which never fails to amuse. But it irritates them just how long it can take to respond to something or someone. 

They became quite close to Toya, her singing helping to calm and sooth them. Molly was a comfortable person to help her come out of her shell more, a supportive figure who didn't ask anything of her, always ready to try and make her laugh with and of the tricks or talents they had up their sleeves. They got to know the rest of the troupe and had helped with easily 40 shows by this point, but the two of them were closer than the others. 

They were happy, Molly came to the realisation one day whilst dressing, understanding how their clothing and other choices were being affected this. They were already tattooed and scarred, but they dressed more flamboyantly and bedecked in more jewelry, their armour. The jacket they hand made is a gorgeous piece, if they do say so themselves. 

One night after a rougher day they woke up to a singing sound, this wasn’t too unusual. Toya has occasionally crawled into his tent when she'd had a nightmare, other times she seemed to know when he needed a song. But being unable to move was different. They looked around wildly to find Toya sitting next to him, her face furrowed in concentration as she continued to sing. What was she doing?

They felt a building burning sensation in their throat, growing to an almost uncomfortable level of pain. Before a knot of chords untangled, the energy dissipating, the burr of pain they’d grown so obliviously used to receded and they coughed, “What did-...” They broke off. They could hear their voice.

”I healed it.” Toya looked to the side, her voice gravelly, “I used my voice to help yours.” She giggled, “I did the right thing, didn’t I?”

Molly frowned, “Thank you, does it hurt you?”

She shook her head, “It will for a little bit, but after the magic runs out our voices will split again.”

Molly could feel a headache building, they carefully took her back to her tent and sat by her, watching over her for a long time. They could talk again. They could speak!

They threw themselves into their new home, learning all they could, talking talking like the best of them. They delved into the tarot cards, there were answers there, even if vague, your interpretation could tell you much about what you wanted. They kept a watchful eye out for the others, for their family. But always more protective of Toya, her voice was gravelly from singing so much and rarely speaking. Every town they stopped in Molly looked up as many recipes and teas for soothing of throats as they could. Every so often they tried to get her to stop, but singing was her passion. Only nearly a year after that night did their voices separate for which Molly was immensely thankful for. Toya's voice was still raw, but healing and Molly didn't know what they could do. So they watched over her and made her laugh.

But some days they woke up thinking they couldn’t talk. Those days either led the a strange silent melancholy or to nonstop fast paced monologues, a desperate reminder that they could speak. They still had no real recollection of life before the carnival, but they had a name and a voice. That would be enough for now. They’d make it so.  


End file.
